


This Kind of Experience is Neccessary For Her Learning

by sinuous_curve



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Biting, Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-04
Updated: 2010-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 21:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High on his shoulder, just off the ridge of his shoulder blade, he has an oblong bruise sunk into his skin. It's bright, livid purple, ridged with a regular series of darker spots along the edge. Spencer has a moment of wondering whether he was the victim of a prank he's since forgotten about or if he got abducted by aliens or someshit. Then, in a rush, he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Kind of Experience is Neccessary For Her Learning

**Author's Note:**

> For the biting square on my 2009 kink_bingo card. This begin with a suggestion from ignipes and was first comment capslocked at shutyourface. Immense thanks to nova33 for the wonderful beta and indispensably helpful comments that shaped the ending.
> 
> Title taken from Velvet Goldmine.

It's a little after midnight when they pull into the motel; it's the kind of place where the half the neon letters are burned out on the sign and the woman behind the counter looks like a desiccated mummy somehow brought back to life. The blacktop of the parking lot is pitted and scarred, riddled with potholes carrying a couple inches of stagnant water.

On a night when they hadn't dealt with a blown tire and six hours loitering on the side of the highway, Spencer would be a little bit concerned about the likelihood of finding roaches in the bathroom. However, he feels like the back of his eyelids are coated in sandpaper and Brendon's hands are tucked in his back pockets, forehead pressed between Spencer's shoulder blades. He just wants a fucking bed and a door that locks.

"Here," Zack says, pressing an actual key into Spencer's hands in lieu of a card. "You guys are...seven."

"Vintage," Brendon says, tucking his chin to Spencer's shoulders. His hair tickles the skin behind Spencer's ear and he smells like sweat and cheap soap; Spencer's doesn't give a goddamn. He wants Brendon naked as soon as possible, because the rough press of Brendon's tongue will do more to melt away the day than any hot shower or massage.

Zack shoos them away and goes to distribute the rest of the keys to the crew. Room seven is halfway down the row of doors facing the parking lot. It's reminds Spencer of Psycho, which would probably be funnier if it wasn't the ass end of morning and a little, tiny, bitty bit creepy shuffling along the cracked pavement.

"Oh my God," Brendon mumbles in Spencer's ear as he fumbles the key in the rusty lock. "Hurry up."

"Fuck off." Spencer awkwardly pushes his elbow into some soft part of Brendon, then ignores the resulting squawk of protest. The key finally gives, sliding into place. Spencer is totally prepared to ignore spiders, cockroaches, mice, and suspicious stains, so long as the promised bed exists at all. "Here, impatient. Jesus."

They tumble into the room and, well. It's not the worst room Spencer's ever slept in. But it's lurking dangerously close to the bottom ten. The wallpaper's faded to the point that the original patter has all but disappeared, and the carpet's threadbare in a large handful of places. Brendon flicks the switch beside the door and a single lamp sullenly buzzes on, casting a muted, gloomy glow.

"How posh," Brendon says wryly, dropping his backpack.

Spencer tosses his duffle into the same corner and raises an eyebrow. Brendon's hair sticks up in random tufts and his shirt is just a little bit too small. Spencer kind of wants to eat him whole. "Do you really care?"

*

Half an hour later, they've each taken a short shower on their own and a longer one together, letting lazy kisses linger under the spray until the water turned from tepid to flat out freezing.

Now Spencer's on spread knees in the middle of the bed, hand wrapped around the rickety wooden headboard so tight he knows it's going to physically hurt to unclench his fingers when they're done. His hair's stuck to his face in sweat damp clumps and Spencer really, honestly doesn't give a shit, because Brendon's pushed in deep with his hands anchored on Spencer's hips.

"Brendon," Spencer huffs out, dropping his head between his arms and pushing his hips back. "Come on, Bren. Please."

Brendon's breath comes hard enough for Spencer to hear it and feel the whoosh of hot air against the skin of his upper back. "I'm here." Brendon presses a sloppy, open mouthed kiss to the back of Spencer's neck, on that one spot Spencer's never told anyone about. "I've got you."

His hands run up Spencer's sides, following the line of his ribs and Spencer is going to fucking die or come or something if Brendon doesn't start moving. "Please." Spencer snaps his head up and back, knocking into Brendon's forehead. "Please. Brendon. Come on."

Slowly - so damn slowly - Brendon starts to pulse his hips. It's too measured for Spencer's taste, too gentle and tentative, but it's something and the groan that spills out of Spencer's mouth comes from deep in his gut.

Spencer's hard enough for it to almost hurt and there's way to get any friction on his dick, short of letting go of the headboard and doing it himself. Honestly, he's not sure he could actually let go at this point. Even so, his hips stutter fruitlessly against the heavy, hot air of the room as Brendon picks up the pace into something faster and harder, driving in deep like he has something to prove.

"More, Bren," Spencer says through gritted teeth. "Fuck."

He can feel Brendon's face pressed to the middle of his back and Brendon's hands have settled back on Spencer's hips.

The headboard actually slams against the tissue paper walls and shakes lose a little bit of plaster. They're going to get so much shit in the morning from whoever got the room on the other side. Spencer doesn't give a shit. It's become par for the course this tour, getting ribbed over bleary-eyed, early morning coffee and flipping off anyone who loudly speculates what was going on in their room last night.

Brendon starts to lose track of the rhythm and Spencer knows that means he's close. "Come on, come on."

Without warning, the mouth that's been leaving messy kisses on Spencer's shoulder blades, sucking hard at overheated skin with the intent of leaving bruises, bites down on Spencer's shoulder.

Except. It's not just a nip like Brendon usually does, it's his teeth sinking into Spencer's skin hard enough for a shock of pain to cut through the haze and jolt down Spencer's spine. It's enough to have Spencer arching hard, hands spasming off the headboard of their own volition, reaching around to curl tight into Brendon's head.

It's enough to have Spencer coming hard, without a hand on him.

*

Spencer wakes up before Brendon, like always, and stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom in a zombie state. In the less forgiving glare of daylight, the room looks twice as pathetic. The tub has a highly suspect grayish crust along the rim and caked at the drain and spigot. Spencer fumbles with the knobs and first gets a blast of icy water that quickly settles into a tepid trickle.

"Awesome," Spencer grumbles, gingerly stepping into the tub. He wishes he had those nylon shoes his mother used to make him wear in the pool when he was a kid.

The water, close to lukewarm against his forearm, feels a whole lot colder running through his hair and down his back. Goose bumps spring up on his arms and, Jesus Christ, Spencer is preemptively calling first shower at the venue. Brendon will probably argue that mentally calling something doesn't count, but Spencer has a height and weight advantage, so he'll win the inevitable fight.

Or they can share. Spencer's not picky.

The soap dish doesn't have any actual soap in it, but it does have a half-empty travel sized bottle of nondescript shampoo. Spencer squirts a small amount into his palm, decides to ignore the strange ammonia scent that floods into the shower, and starts scrubbing at his hair. His scalp doesn't start to itch or burst into flames, so he counts it a win.

Ten minutes later, the water's slid back into so cold he could probably chill beer in it, so Spencer shuts off the water with an ominous, clanking gurgle.

Two towels hang on the bar next to the shower and Spencer, being a good person and decent human being, only takes one. It's roughly the size of a postage stamp, rough as sandpaper, and worn translucent in a couple places, but it's better than nothing. Standing on the stained linoleum, Spencer quickly towels off.

Making a pass over his shoulder, he has to bite back a surprised hiss at the sudden sting that shoots over his skin. "The fuck?" Spencer mutters, turning his back to grimy mirror.

High on his shoulder, just off the ridge of his shoulder blade, he has a oblong bruise sunk into his skin. It's bright, livid purple, ridged with a regular series of darker spots along the edge. Spencer has a moment of wondering whether he was the victim of a prank he's since forgotten about or if he got abducted by aliens or someshit. Then, in a rush, he remembers.

Bed frame. Brendon. Brendon's teeth.

"Shit," Spencer huffs out, pink coloring his cheeks.

Brendon fucking bit him and Spencer came and he's never going to be able to live that shit down. Ever.

By the time Zack's come to pound on the door and tell them both to get their asses in gear, the bus is leaving in twenty and they will leave the pair of them behind, Spencer's already dressed and lacing up his sneakers. Brendon rolls out of bed, bleary and beautiful, and thumps Spencer on the shoulder, "Why didn't you wake me up? Worst fucking boyfriend ever."

His hand hits the bruise and Spencer winces, trying to blush, stammer, or get hard.

*

The entire rest of the day is just. Well. It's fucking weird.

It feels like every goddamn time Spencer shifts, the mark on his shoulder lets out a friendly little twinge to remind him that it's there. He tries carrying his backpack on the other shoulder, but that feels oddly unbalanced, like he's walking crooked and listing. The strap presses against the bruise, too, and Spencer has to school his face into a calmness he doesn't really feel.

Brendon keeps casting him looks from the corner of his eyes and, eventually, pulls him aside after sound check. "No, seriously, is something wrong? You've been weird all damn day."

Spencer almost instinctively reaches up to press his fingers to the mark. Like that wouldn't be the most unsubtle of all possible reactions to something that really, honestly isn't at all worth the internal freak out he's having. "I'm fine, Bee. I slept weird."

"Right." Brendon raises his eyebrows and folds his arms over his chest. "I totally don't know you at all and, thus, buy that."

"Hey." It's cheating and Spencer's knows it, but he crowds into Brendon's personal space, pressing their hips together and sliding his palms up Brendon's arms to curl around his neck. He feels the moment when Brendon's resistance drops away and he leans into Spencer. "I'm fine, loverboy."

Spencer kisses him, patently aware how easy it would be for someone to catch them and not giving a goddamn.

Two days later, the bruise is faded enough for Spencer to not be so aware of it all the fucking time. Two days after that, the colors faded enough for it to start looking like an old bruise and Spencer feels confident in passing off the whole biting/coming bit as an aberration brought on by a creepy motel and lack of sleep.

*

"This," Brendon says, executing a neat little twirl in the middle of the room, "is what a fucking hotel night should look like."

Spencer laughs, tossing his bag onto the king sized bed(yeah, that's right, it's a fucking king and Spencer is going to flop down spread eagle in it and revel) and arching his back. He has no idea who they pleased enough to justify a night in an actual five star hotel and not a shitty motel in the ass end of nowhere, but hell if Spencer's going to complain.

Even the carpet underneath his feet feels thick and luxurious. Were they a little later in tour and home felt farther away, he's probably be tempted to roll around on the floor, rubbing his face into the rug. As it is, his fingers are itching to feel up the towels stacked neatly in the bathroom and the five hundred count sheets. And Brendon, of course.

"So." Brendon sits on the end of the bed, leaning back and spreading his legs just enough for the invitation to be hinted at rather than explicit. A rush of heat thrums out from Spencer's spine, settling warm and hot and heavy low in the pit of his stomach. "C'mere."

"Subtle, Bren."

Spencer's pulls off his tee shirt as he crossed the room, tossing it aside to land in a puddle by the desk underneath the window. Brendon pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and smiles, hooking his hands in the waist of Spencer's jeans. "Subtlety is over-fucking-rated, babe."

Their clothes get shucked off and shoved aside with practiced ease. Brendon's stupidly tight jeans take a little wiggling and maneuvering to get off and Spencer almost takes a knee to the kidney in the process of removing their sneakers, but. They're in a fantastic room and they played an electrified show and they're both turned on and happy and, really, these are the moments they live for.

"I want to fuck you," Brendon says with perfectly calm honesty, pushing Spencer down onto the bed. The sheets do feel as good as Spencer imagined, soft and crisp and clean. Brendon kneels between his legs and circles his hand around both their cocks. "How does that sound?"

Spencer makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a gasp, pressing his hips up off the bed and into the heat of Brendon's fingers.

They have condoms and lube ready, because nothing kills the mood like having to put pants on and go running to Zack to ask him to go the nearest CVS and pick up supplies for them. Spencer hears the pop of the cap opening and wet sound of Brendon slicking up his fingers. "So fucking pretty," Brendon murmurs, kissing the bend of Spencer's knee.

He traces a wet line along the crease of Spencer's hip to his balls, along his ass to press against his entrance. Spencer keens softly, lifting up his hips and forcing himself not to press down. "Fucking tease. Come on."

Brendon chuckles, low and suffused with heat, then eases two fingers in. It burns a little, but Spencer's never been one for gentle sex and he likes the sensation of really being stretched. He goes from half way there to hard in the time it takes for Brendon set a rhythm fucking Spencer with his fingers. He crooks them every now and then, just barely brushing against that spot that has Spencer's nerve endings shorting out from how fucking good it feels.

"Want a third?" Brendon asks, using his free hand to give Spencer's a dick a couple of quick, rough strokes.

"No," Spencer grits out. "I fucking want you."

"So impatient," Brendon teases, but he tears the foil on the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it on. Spencer hates the loss of friction on his dick and the fingers in his ass; he can help pushing himself closer to Brendon, needing the slick feeling of their skin touching.

Brendon pulls Spencer legs up, settling them on his shoulders. He kisses at Spencer's knee again, flicking his tongue at the triangle of freckles. "Hey, I got you," Brendon says. "Look at me."

Spencer forces his eyes open and sees Brendon, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. His hair sticking up in tufts and he is so stupidly fucking beautiful, Spencer doesn't even know. "I know," Spencer says, trying to keep his breath even. "Please, Bren. Please."

The first push in is always a little much, skating the fine line between more and too much and Spencer doesn't even try to bite back to guttural cry that blossoms up out of his chest. He curls his hands in his own hair, because he needs something to hold onto as Brendon pushes in with driving steadiness. He's not shy about this anymore and Spencer loves it, would beg for it.

They haven't been able to do much more than steal a few kisses here and there over the past four or five days; that shouldn't be enough to have them both resting on hair trigger responses, but it is. Spencer will never get enough of Brendon, his skin and his mouth and his dick, his hands curled around Spencer's thighs.

There's a sound to when they fuck like this, the wet slap of skin and Brendon's huffed out breaths and Spencer's groans. He's so hard he's leaking, but he doesn't wrap a hand around his dick. It's always been that way, Spencer hanging on until it's Brendon's hands or mouth pushing him over the edge.

Spencer's eyes are closed when Brendon bends down, but he can feel it of course. It's almost too much to ask of his flexibility, but Brendon licking at his collarbone in counterpoint to the movement of his hips is never something Spencer's going to say no to. His tongue is rough against Spencer's slick overheated skin and curls his fingers in Brendon's.

Kisses and nips, Brendon sucking hard to leave hickeys that they'll both laugh about in the morning. It's almost too much sensory input and Spencer still fucking wants more.

Brendon scrapes his teeth against the rise and Spencer cries out, arching into the rough press. And then, fuck, Brendon bites down and there aren't words for the sharp, brilliant sensation that floods through Spencer's brain and along every fucking nerve he has.

He comes with a cry, pushing into the sting.

*

The bruise is purple and blue. There are actual indent of teeth on Spencer's collarbone that match up perfectly with Brendon's teeth, deeper where his incisors are.

He tries not to stare at it as he brushes his teeth, but it's hard. His free hand keeps trying to move off the counter and press his fingertips against it. Pain has never been something that's made Spencer particularly hot and heavy, but. The dull ache radiates out through his skin and into his muscles and lingers.

Shaking his head, Spencer's spits into the sink as the bathroom door swings open and Brendon shuffles in. He's sleepy eyed crumpled from sleep, yawning and scratching his stomach. "Morning."

Brendon comes up behind Spencer, tucked his face to the curve of his shoulder and wrapping his arms around Spencer's waist. He smells like sweat and whatever detergent the hotel uses on the sheets. "Hey." Spencer manages to press an awkward kiss to Brendon's forehead. He's always like this first thing, warm and malleable and clingy.

Spencer cups his hand underneath the faucet and slurps the water into his mouth, swishing for a few seconds. Brendon hands start roaming up and down his belly and sides; his mouth moves in soft little kisses on Spencer's neck that tickle. Spitting, Spencer's shimmies a little, pushing is elbow into Brendon's side. "Tease."

"Mm." Brendon snuffles. "You love me."

"True."

Spencer shifts around, settling with his ass leaning against the counter so they stand with their chests pressed together. He loops his hands around Brendon's waist, loosely lacing his fingers in the small of his back. "We really, really don't have time," Spencer says conversationally, easing his knee between Brendon's legs. "Just saying."

"I know," Brendon groans, dropping his forehead to Spencer's chest.

Involuntarily, Spencer makes a noise in the back of his throat.

Brendon snaps his head back, brow creased. It takes all of a grand total of three seconds for his eyes to zero in on the mark and another two before he, always the tactile one, is gently probing it with the tips of his fingers. "Is this from last night?"

"Yeah." There is no fucking logical reason for it, but Spencer's beginning to get a little bit hard. He shifts his hips, pushing off the counter and snaking out of Brendon's arms. "It's no big deal, Vampira."

*

The show that night isn't weird, exactly.

The crowd is good, yelling with the lyrics to the old songs and just yelling during the new ones. Brendon makes a crack about them being able to remember the lyrics faster than he can and they laugh affectionately. Spencer plays a rimshot and Brendon looks over his shoulder, blowing a kiss than half the audience can easily see.

It's more so that Brendon spends half the show with his back turned to the crowd, playing to Spencer. He even comes up onto the riser a couple times, like he's some kind of punk rock god who can jump eight feet into the air and land on his back, still crashing out the chords, not a label-defying front man in a neat suit and tie.

After the encore, Brendon jumps back up, planting his feet on either side of Spencer's stool. His wraps one arm around Spencer's shoulder, "So I don't fall on my ass," and punches the other into the air.

His fingers dig into the bruise and Spencer so badly wants to push that off as an accident, but Brendon's not really that accident prone. Spencer pushes a fist into his belly, hidden by the drums arrayed in front of him, and wonders if this fucking teeth mark to hard dick correlation is some kind of screwball Pavlovian response.

*

For two weeks, Brendon keeps his teeth to himself. He leaves behind a wide and varied array of other reminders scattered like landmarks across the topography of Spencer's skin - hickeys on his chest and neck, scratches over his shoulders and down his back, bruises in his hips and ass - but no more bites. Spencer can't decide if he's relieved or perversely disappointed.

By the grace of whatever fickle gods govern the interstates, they get to the Iowa venue an impressive four hours early, which gives Spencer and Brendon a little time to linger on the bus while the techs get to putting everything together.

"Have fun playing video games," Zack says over his shoulder as he thumps down the bus steps with one eyebrow raised.

Brendon grins sweetly and waggles his fingers in farewell. "We will."

Not even five minutes pass before Spencer's stretched out as much as possible along the small couch in the lounge. It's barely wide enough to accommodate the span of his shoulders and he has to bend his knees, but with Brendon's weight pressed between his shoulders and hips, Spencer can't honestly say that he minds all too terribly. Brendon's so warm and he smells like cinnamon pop tarts, chapstick, and faintly whiskey.

"You remember the first time we did this?" Brendon asks, lightly grinding his hips down. He's half hard and they both know they won't have time or space to really do anything until they get to the hotel, but the promise has appeal in and of itself.

"The first time we made out? Or the first time we made out on a bus?"

Brendon laughs, settling his elbows on either side of Spencer's head and tangling his fingers in Spencer's hair. "The first time we made out was in the bathroom of the Smoothie Shack while I was on break. You spilled a banana mango passion down your front and I was helping you clean up."

"Mm." Spencer sneaks his fingers up under Brendon's tee shirt. His skin is soft underneath Spencer's fingers as he traces the ridges and bumps of his spine. Brendon shudders, just a little; he's ticklish there. "Some help you were."

"You weren't complaining." It's warm inside the bus, with mid-afternoon sunlight pouring in through the tinted windows. The TV's on, but someone muted the volume so the local newscast plays in on silence. They're showing some story about a dog and a toddler. Spencer pushes his knee into Brendon's hip and Brendon rubs his thigh up against Spencer's crotch. "And the first time we made out on a bus was...the first time we were ever on a bus, I think."

Spencer groans softly, pressing his fingers into Brendon's muscles. "You came in your basketball shorts."

"Well," Brendon chuckles, low and tinged an octave lower. "You were on top of me."

"You're on top of me now," Spencer says inanely and Brendon laughs again, pushing their hips together with decidedly more purpose and intent.

Words trail away as Brendon dips down for a kiss. It's dirty in the way Spencer has always been stupid for, ever since he was a seventeen year old kid suffering through the crushing throes of lust over the stupid guy with a bowl cut who was going to sing in their band. Spencer's gained six inches of height and fifty pounds of weight and slightly sharper features since then, but Brendon has always known just which buttons to press to go sliding underneath Spencer's skin.

He fits there easily and that's how Spencer likes it.

Spencer drags up Brendon's shirt as they kiss, rubbing his palms over Brendon's back and sides. He heads lower too, of course, because Brendon has an ass that doesn't quit and Spencer's always found it prudent to appreciate Brendon's attributes. He's wearing bright blue underwear, because he's an endearing loser, and Spencer flicks at the elastic waistband. Brendon squeaks out a noise into Spencer's mouth, pushing his hips back into Spencer's hand.

They don't have time, they so emphatically don't have time. It's not near enough to make Spencer stop.

Brendon slides his tongue along Spencer's bottom lip. It's half gross, half unbearable fucking sexy, which is a contradiction Spencer's gotten used to when it comes to half the shit Brendon pulls.

Grinning, Brendon trails the tip of his nose over the curve of Spencer's cheek. His breath is hot against the rest of Spencer's skin and, seriously, Brendon can tease just by standing within six feet of Spencer wearing yesterday's shirt with his hair sticking up in the back. When he goes out of his way, it's unfair is what it is.

Spencer surges up, chasing Brendon's mouth with a low sound that very well could be considered a growl. Brendon laughs, pulling his hands back to push Spencer flat down on the couch at his shoulders. Brendon has this tendency, every now and then, to get a little pushy and Spencer, contrary to everything he would have expected about himself, is remarkably okay with that.

Brendon snakes one his hands down and shimmies it up into Spencer's shirt, then pulls his blunt nails down in a wandering line to Spencer's waist. "Fuck," Spencer gasps out, arching up.

In retrospect, Spencer's never able to tell whether Brendon specifically planned it or whether it was one of those in the moment things. Regardless, while Spencer's too focused on the blunt, near burn of Brendon's nails makes tracks in his skin, Brendon bends down for another kiss.

But instead of just kissing, even their usual level of rough with bruising teeth, Brendon bites down hard on Spencer's bottom lip.

It's a little bit like someone clamped a couple of jumper cables on Spencer's nerve endings and revved the engine. He goes from half hard to aching in what feels like a matter of seconds, digging his fingers into Brendon's skin and letting out a cry that almost makes the fucking walls of the bus shake. Brendon pulls on Spencer's lip, still caught between his teeth, and keeps Spencer pushed down.

When he does let go, Spencer whimpers, fucking whimpers, while his scrambled brain tries to sort everything back into something approaching logical sense.

Brendon's cheeks are flushed hectic red and his eyes are bright as he sets back, settling his weight on his knees with his weight pressed against Spencer's thighs. He looks like debauchery personified, lips just a little bit swollen. Spencer swallows hard, shoving his hair back from his face and trying not to fucking wiggle too much. "What?"

"You like that," Brendon says and it's very definitely a statement of fact rather than a question. "Biting. You like that."

A ridiculous, tangled flux of emotions crash through Spencer's brain.

It's weird, it's really stupidly weird and he doesn't know where the hell it came from. He was never the kid who has fantasies about vampires swooping into his room in the middle of the night to take him away and spend the rest of a nighttime eternity gnawing on his neck. He doesn't dream about people taking chunks out of him after he and Brendon have fucked.

Spencer's never been like that and it's not like that.

"I don't -" Spencer begins, shying away from Brendon's eyes. "It's not anything."

Brendon reaches down and curls his fingers around Spencer's chin, pulling his gaze up to meet Brendon's eyes. "Don't lie to me, Spence." Brendon's flushed with what looks, oddly, like excitement and fucked if Spencer can decipher what the hell exactly that's supposed to mean.

Spencer just likes Brendon, is the thing. He likes when Brendon pushes his way into Spencer's personal space and stays there, like he has every right to exist in the same air. He likes when Brendon gets just a little bit rough, pining Spencer against the mattress with all the force he's got in him. He just. He fucking likes when Brendon leaves tangible reminders scattered across his skin.

"So what?" Spencer fires back, licking his lips and trying to keep his stupid, needy hips still. He's still hard. "So what if I do?"

Brendon slowly breaks into a wide, toothy smile. Spencer has a split second of thinking about pod people and sexbots before Brendon falling back down and kissing Spencer hard. A slight shock of pain bursts out in tandem with pleasant shocks down his spine. Brendon presses his tongue against the indents on the soft tissue of Spencer's lip and that's so goddamn good Spencer almost makes a truly embarrassing noise.

And just as suddenly, he's tumbling off the couch and shoving his feet into his flip flops.

"Seriously?" Spencer rolls onto his side, resisting the urge to pull his knees up to his chest. "Brendon, what the fuck?"

"Hey." Brendon reaches out, tucking Spencer's hair behind his ear with a smile. "Tonight."

*

Spencer stumbles his way through sound check and meet and greet, tripping over his words and his feet. He feels like he hasn't really come down from the afternoon on the bus and Zack asks at least four times if he's okay or if he needs anything.

In contrast, Brendon's going a mile a minute. He jokes around with the techs and keeps his cool when some wire gets crossed with another wire and they spend fifteen minutes in feedback hell before things get switched around. He's kind to each kid at the meet and greet, accepting their trinkets with genuine graciousness and spending a second with his attention zeroed in on each of them.

Truth be told? It makes Spencer a little bit nervous. This off-balance feeling, this not knowing what the fuck is going through Brendon's head or what he's thinking sits uneasily on Spencer's skin. He likes being in the know and having some measure of control over everything that goes on in his life.

He grabs Brendon's arm just before they go on stage and murmurs in his ear, "What are you planning?"

Brendon turns, circles a hand around Spencer's wrist, and pulls his free hand up. He kisses Spencer's knuckles and digs the tip of his fingers to the pulse point. "You'll find out, I promise."

Brendon's never had a better show than the one they play that night, but Spencer counts it as a win that he only fumbles half a dozen time.

*

Between the venue and the hotel, Brendon's animated and chatty. He and Zack talk about movies they want to see and albums they want to buy and whether or not they'll be able to find that one taco place in Texas with the really good enchiladas. Brendon's hand stays on Spencer's knee, thumb lightly arcing against the fabric of his jeans. Spencer watches with his heart thumping hard beneath his ribs. It almost seems like with just a little more effort it could come busting out.

He doesn't really know if it's nervousness or excitement or fear or all of it crammed into once space too small. Zack steals a couple glances from the corner of his eye, but Spencer sets his jaw and doesn't look back. He's fine.

The label's offered a couple times to start forking over for separate hotel rooms, but they've always waved away the offers with half baked excuses about wanting to give the under appreciated techs the space they deserve. The real reason, of course, is that it's hard to get naked and rub against each other when they're being housed two doors down from each other. Zack hands them one card key in the lobby and waves in the direction of the elevators.

Brendon hooks one hand casually around Spencer's elbow and pulls across the marble floor. At one in the morning, there aren't too many people around and they get one whole elevator all to themselves for the ride fourteen floors up. The walls are some burnished, reflective material that casts them in indistinct, mutated forms between the artistic swirls.

The doors slide closed with the sedate tone of a bell and Spencer's almost expecting it, but he still makes a soft noise in the back of his throat when Brendon crowds in close until Spencer's back hits the wall.

Despite Spencer having at least three or four inches on Brendon, he still feels the strange, appealing sense of being held in place by Brendon's presence. Their hips press together and maybe it's just the adrenaline high of the show still pumping through Brendon's veins, but he's well on his way to ready. "Hey," Brendon says, "Hi, Spence." He runs his hands along Spencer's shoulders and down his arms, leaning in for a rough, claiming kiss.

It's almost the same as before, the way Spencer's mouth flares in a combination of sharp stinging and a deeper rush through his veins. Accidentally, Spencer groans low and deep in his throat, curling his hands in Brendon's collar and pulling him closer.

"Like that?" Brendon asks. He's not teasing, is the thing. There's a genuine need to know in the words. As the door slide open with another muted ding, Spencer nods.

Their room is halfway down the hall. Brendon's hands are steady as he pushes in the card, waits for the little light underneath the handle to turn green, and opens the door. Spencer follows him in feeling they've somehow gone back to that first night in Brendon shitty little apartment with the mattress on the floor and the roaches in the wall. The idea then, at least for Spencer, had been to take some of the weight from Brendon's shoulders.

There's enough light coming in through the windows for Brendon to not flick to switch to turn on the brighter ones. He turns, circling his hands around Spencer's wrists. The calluses rubbed into the pads of his fingers and palms and rough in the best way. "I have an idea," he says, pulling Spencer hands up and kissing the inside of each wrist, where the skin is translucent enough to see the blue spiderweb of veins.

Spencer likes control, but the other side of that coin is a bone, deep implicit trust in Brendon. "Okay," he says, drawing out the syllable slightly.

Brendon smiles and lets go of Spencer's arms. He's almost thrumming with energy, feeding off some source that Spencer can't give name to, but can sense. "Okay, so. Get naked and lay down on your back," Brendon says. It's between a request and a command, hovering in the place where Brendon both expects Spencer to do it without question and demand more answers before they go any further.

Taking a deep breath, Spencer toes off his sneakers and pulls his tee shirt off over his head. There's no way for undressing to be anything but a little bit awkward, but he can feel Brendon's eyes roam appreciatively as he shucks off his jeans and boxers.

Naked, Spencer shivers slightly at the first burst of cooled air as he crosses the room and lies down on the bed. There aren't any squeaking hinges here or water stains that might or might not have the face of the Jesus rendered in light brown if you squint and turn your head. The comforter is soft underneath his back and ass and the bed dips just slightly.

"Put your hands over your head," Brendon says, running a hand through his hair. "And hold on to the headboard, okay?"

The head board is made of a dark wood and the slats are just narrow enough that he can comfortably curl his fingers around them. He's been naked in front of Brendon a thousand times before in the time that they've known each other, from fucking to just having to change back stage in a small room. But Spencer doesn't think he's ever felt this exposed, laid out on the bed with Brendon standing over him.

He kind of. Likes it?

Brendon kicks off his shoes and sheds his shirt, jeans and socks quickly. He's got a little bit a farmer's tan shadowing his arms from all the hours they've spent outside and he just looks good. Spencer licks his lips and tightens his fingers around the slats. He wants to touch is the thing, but he can wait.

Grinning, Brendon climbs onto the bed and crawls his way up the length of Spencer's body. He settles with his knees bracketing Spencer's hips and waist. For a moment, he just runs his hands across Spencer's belly and up over his chest and shoulders, flicking at Spencer's nipples and pressing the pads of his fingers to the lingering bruises and marks dotted over his collarbone.

"This okay?" he asks.

Spencer's hard pressed to bite back the groans slowly building in the base of his chest. He loves this kind of thing; Brendon slowly teasing him until he feels like he's actually going to shatter apart. It's a little bit like torture.

"Okay. Good." Brendon laughs softly. It's a nervous tick of his, little giggles that come bursting up whenever he's trying to pretend he's not really worried. In a way, that makes Spencer feel better. This whole stupid fucking thing with the teeth and whatever. At least it's not just him.

Brendon scoots back a few inches and bends over so the top of his head rests comfortably right under Spencer's chin. He's like a damn heater, exuding warmth across Spencer's torso while his hands restlessly trace a path up and down Spencer's side.

The first kiss is teasingly light on Spencer's adam's apple. It's a brief press of his lips, almost chaste. Spencer still feels it down to his toes; he has a moment of thinking scattered thoughts about anticipation heightening the pleasure or something like that, but they don't last long. Brendon moves down a little more and finds one of the fresher hickeys on the ridge of Spencer's collarbone.

He seals his mouth over the marked skin and sucks hard.

Spencer makes a sound, high pitched a mewling. His shoulders lift up off the mattress and it's only the hard dig of Brendon's fingers into his sides that brings him back down.

There aren't words to describe what it feels like, the hot flush of heat that rockets out down his veins and nerves and settles insistently over his body. His toes actually curl, is the ridiculous thing, like he's some hero in a crappy gay romance novel who can't manage to even look at his love without getting hard.

Brendon's hips are pulsing lightly, probably independent of any conscious thought. It's enough for Spencer to get a kind of teasing friction that can get him hard, but definitely not off.

Brendon pulls off and licks at the bruise. The rough scrape of his tongue sends little flares of aftershocks shooting out along Spencer's skin. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut and pulls in a long, shaking breath. Some part of his mind still insists that this is the most fucking ridiculous thing that has ever happened to him in a long and storied history of ridiculous things. But that voice keeps getting quieter.

"Love you," Brendon barely murmurs, mouth pressed against Spencer's body.

He finds the same spot and scrapes his teeth against it.

Spencer can't bite back the groan, he can't. Brendon's never been particularly gentle in bed, but this is a whole different level of purposefulness. It's not as sharp a sensation, but an ache that slowly radiates out away from the bruise and settles into Spencer's muscles and bones.

He doesn't realize he's pulling hard against the head board until Brendon's hands trace up his side and curl around his biceps, kneading into muscles. "Hey, I've got you." It takes a conscious expenditure of effort, but Spencer relaxes his arms. "Breathe," Brendon says, rubbing his thumbs in a circle.

They stay that way for maybe thirty seconds, maybe an hour, however long it takes for Spencer's breathing to settle back into normal rhythm and his heart to reluctantly slide out of his throat and back to its normal place in his chest. Brendon inches back down his body, settles his weight on Spencer's hips with his hands on Spencer's side.

He leans over again, blowing out puffs of warm air that make Spencer fucking tingle. They're both hard; Spencer wonders where the fuck they left the lube, because he's going to be pissed if they have to put the brakes on to look for it.

Brendon zeroes back in on the same spot that's still distantly throbbing. He flicks his tongue out, teasing against the raw skin in tandem with his hips grinding down against Spencer. Spencer sucks in a hard breath and tightens his fingers. In the back of his mind, he thinks it's probably going to hurt to unwind them when he and Brendon are done, but he really doesn't give a shit. This isn't like anything they've ever done before.

Brendon scrapes his teeth other the bruise again, then shifts his entire body slightly and bites down.

Spencer cries out like someone punched him or shocked him or both and he bucks up off the bed. His shoulders protest the angle and Brendon has to put the full force of his weight into Spencer to push him back down.

It's that same thing, that electric sensation like he's been attached to car a battery controlled by someone with a lead food. His eyes shut and, for a split second, he thinks he actually sees sparks dancing behind his eyelids. "Jesus motherfucking Christ," he pants out and Brendon laughs, high and half hysterical.

"You really fucking like that," Brendon says, words tripping over themselves as they tumble out of his mouth. Spencer opens his eyes and looks at him. From the low angle, Brendon looks bigger than he really is. He's going got patches of hectic color splashed high on his cheeks and beads of sweat collected at his temples and along his hairline.

Spencer tries to shrug, but it doesn't really work. Want cycles insistently, low in his belly. He wants to get off and he wants Brendon inside of him and wants, wants, wants. "Yes, fuck. Brendon."

"See," Brendon says, shoving his hair out of his eyes and rubbing his palm across his forehead and cheeks. "I've been thinking about biting you for a long time, but I was never sure what you'd say." He bends down and seals his mouth around Spencer's nipple. It's blatant cheating since he knows that Spencer's nipples are one of those spots that make his brain short out. Spencer has a moment of being indignant, then Brendon pushes down his teeth and pulls and coherent thought goes flying out the window.

Spencer feels a little bit like his heart is being torn out by the fucking roots.

"Fuck." Brendon let's go and chases the bite with a sloppy kiss. "You don't even know what you look like. What you sound like." There's a sarcastic reply hovering somewhere in Spencer's throat, but he can't seem to get it to come out. His brain is too busy short circuiting.

Brendon bends back down, anchoring himself with hands planted on either side of Spencer's chest.

He starts with sucking kisses, the kind that Spencer's used to. One right in the center of his chest on his breastbone, then another along the bottom point where his ribs sweep up and come together. He suctions on hard enough for Spencer to feel a pop of release when he lets go.

Every couple marks he chases the kisses with a thumb pressed hard into the mark left behind and Spencer comes up off the bed a few inches, letting out little gasping cries. They've mussed the comforter and sheets enough for him to be able to feel the fabric bunch and move under his heels as he digs them into the mattress.

"You are so fucking much, Spence," Brendon huffs out around the level of Spencer's belly button.

He pushes back up and then it's not just kisses and sucking, suddenly it's his teeth and Spencer can't do anything but wail and hold on.

There's a bite on his collarbone that shocks out along the ridge of bone. Then another in the meat of Spencer's chest where he swears to God and all the saints he can actually feel each individual press of teeth into his skin. He's so fucking hard, pumping his hips up for any friction he can find. Spencer hasn't come without being touched since he was sixteen and existing in a constant fog of perpetual arousal. Now, though, he thinks he might be in for a fucking encore.

Brendon pushes lower and nips once lightly at Spencer's belly, then chases that small sting with another bite that hurts, but in the way that makes Spencer arch up into Brendon's mouth. He's going to have so many bruises in the morning, oval patches of blue and purple with darker marks from the points of contact.

Another on his belly, hovering to the right of his bellybutton. Brendon's scooting lower and lower on his body. Spencer wants to tangle his fingers in Brendon's hair to push him down and direct his mouth, but he's not sure he could unwind his fingers even if he needed to. Brendon releases his teeth and chases with a kiss, running his tongue along the indents pressed into Spencer's skin.

Spencer can't breathe, he can't think. It's overwhelming and he doesn't have words to explain why this, Brendon's teeth, do this. It's ridiculous, in a sense, and he doesn't care. He's so close.

Brendon pushes himself back and Spencer lets out a soft cry at the loss of contact, pushing his hips up and not finding the friction he needs. "It's okay," Brendon gasps out, "Spence."

"Hold on for me," Brendon says, voice pitched low and filled with gravel. He bends down and Spencer hears the impatient snick of a zipper being shoved open; when Brendon comes back up, he's holding a half empty tube of lube in one hand. "I'm going to fuck you."

Spencer twists his hips and curls his toes into the mattress. He wants so badly he can feel it throbbing in his skin and dick. His balls are drawn up tight against his body, aching for release. Brendon pops the cap and slicks up his hand and fingers. With a smirk, he tosses the bottle aside. It thumps against the wall and slides down to the carpet.

Brendon hauls one of Spencer's legs up to his shoulder and traces a line along his hip with one finger. It's shockingly cold and Spencer whimpers, shaking his head back and forth against the pillow. The tip of Brendon's finger pushes against his entrance and Spencer keens, flexing his hips back. He doesn't honestly know if he can handle it without coming all over himself, but he wants.

"Don't come," Brendon says, licking a stripe on the side of his knee. "You can hold on."

He pushes two fingers in right off the bat and it's very nearly more than Spencer can take. He likes it rough, but this is different. The rough slid of skin against skin, Brendon's calluses scraping, is almost more than Spencer can handle. The burn of stretching walks a fine line between not enough and too fucking much.

Which. The bites are doing the same goddamn thing. Spencer pushes his hips back on Brendon's fingers, fucking himself with impatience and raw need.

Brendon doesn't stretch him for any longer than he absolutely needs to. In some part of his brain that's still given to coherency, Spencer has a moment of wondering if that's because he knows Spencer likes it or if it's because Brendon doesn't know how long he can hang on. Brendon takes Spencer other leg and pulls it up onto his shoulder; they don't usually fuck like this, with Spencer on his back, and the angle is different.

When he opens his eyes, he can see sweat beaded on Brendon's collarbone and deep, dark cast to his eyes.

"Can you wait for me?" Brendon gasps out, lining his dick up. "Spencer, can you hold on for me?"

Spencer frantically nods his head. It might be a lie, but he'll do everything he can to hold on.

Brendon pushes in with merciless precision. It boggles Spencer's mind how he can possibly be so fucking in control, but he is. It isn't gentle or easy or reckless or any of the adjectives that usually free fall through Spencer's mind when he's being fucked. It's Brendon, somehow, finding a way to give Spencer the hardness he craves and still exact a pointed measure of control. Brendon is in charge here; he's going to get what he wants and give what he feels and nothing more.

It doesn't take long before Brendon's hips start to lose their rhythm in the rush of sensation. Spencer's literally seeing bursts of sparks behind his eyes, multicolored and brilliant.

When Brendon comes, it's with the first really broken noise Spencer's heard, curling in on himself with his fingers digging bruises into Spencer's thighs. Spencers dick lays heavy and throbbing on his stomach. He can't stop his hips from pulsing; he thinks he might not last as long as it takes from Brendon to finish him off.

"Please, fucking please," Spencer begs. "Brendon, fuck. Please, please, I need. Please."

Brendon lets Spencer legs fall down to the floor and crawls up his body, pressing their chests together. He curls a hand around Spencer's dick and jerks him twice, roughly. He dips his head and presses an open mouthed kiss to Spencer's shoulder, then sinks his teeth down in a bite that echoes that first night in the crappy motel in the middle of nowhere.

Spencer comes with an inarticulate shout, throwing his head back into the pillow and shaking apart. He feels stripped open and raw, like his nerve endings have been exposed to unfiltered touch and there's no disconnect between touch and sensation.

Brendon very nearly collapses on top of Spencer, both of them gasping for breath in the heightened, post-coital aftershocks. By the time Spencer's vision has sorted itself out and his brain's put itself back into some semblance of order, Brendon's rolled to the side and started rubbing at his wrists, murmuring, "Hey, come on. Let go, Spence."

True to prediction, the joints of Spencer's finger creak and protest as he slowly unlocks each digit and peels them away from the slats. He winces slightly at the ache in his shoulders as he pulls his arms down. Brendon pulls Spencer's hands to his mouth and kisses his palms, massaging the tips of his fingers into the tendons of Spencer's wrists.

"So," Brendon says eventually. "That was fun."

It's so fucking ridiculous it startles a laugh out of Spencer and once he's started, it's hard to stop.

It was fun. It was fun and ridiculous and Spencer thinks he will probably never be able to think about biting without blushing and stammering, bu that's okay. We all have our things. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," he shoots back, lazy.

"Oh, yeah. It was just me." Brendon rolls his eyes, but tempers it with a grin and manages to wiggle the blanket out from under their legs and toss it across both of them. He snuggles in close, wrapping an arm around Spencer's stomach and hooking his leg over Spencer's thigh. "But seriously. You okay?"

Spencer rolls his head to the side. When he flexes the muscles of his stomach, he can feel a dozen or more places where it pulls slightly in warning of the bruises that are to come. When they wake up, he'll probably look like he went ten rounds with a piranha. Whether he won or lost is up to interpretation.

"Yeah," Spencer says, craning his head up and leaning in for a kiss. "Yeah, I'm really good.


End file.
